Yearly Archives: 2013

Between you and I, could you take a picture of my friends and I?

My latest article for TheWeek.com deals with a popular issue: pronouns in compound objects (the things in my title, above, that may have your teeth grinding). I talk about not just the rule but why so many people find it so hard to stick to it. The article is

‘You and I’ vs. ‘You and me’

In the past couple of days, I’ve also added a couple of longer posts on grammar. One of them tears to bits a web page of grammar advice: Why it’s best to leave grammar advice to experts. The other does a detailed dismantling and analysis of a potentially confusing sentence from a recent award-winning book: A little Hellgoing sentence mechanical deconstruction.

A little Hellgoing sentence mechanical deconstruction

In Lynn Coady’s Giller-Prize-winning book Hellgoing, one of my editorial colleagues has spotted the following sentence:

She tried not to stare at Marco while he spoke to whomever he was speaking to, but she wasn’t succeeding.

Does that look quite right? Are you not quite sure? It’s the sort of sentence that you might not think much about unless you stop and look at it, but if you do stop and look at it it might start to drive you a little crazy.

So let’s go into this little Hell and take apart this sentence and see how it works.

Core subjects and verbs:

She tried . . . but she wasn’t succeeding.

Tried what?

…tried not to stare…

Not to stare at whom?

…not to stare at Marco…

I’ll abbreviate “She tried not to stare at Marco” as STNSM. It’s syntactically fine, I think we can agree.

Now: when?

STNSM while he spoke…

OK, spoke to whom?

…he spoke to X

where whoever X was, he was speaking to him.

So X was the person he was speaking to. Whoever that was.

Now here is how that plays out in that bit of the sentence. We need a relativizer:

…he spoke to {the person} {[relativizer] he was speaking to him}

What happens is that {the person} is replaced by the whole {[relativizer] he was speaking to him}.

The relativizer is “whoever” or, as the case may be, “whomever”:

…he spoke to {whoever {he was speaking to [him]}}

The “him” at the end moves up and merges with the relativizer, giving it accusative case (i.e., making it the object) (see the bottom of this post for more on this):

…he spoke to {whoever [+him] he was speaking to}

…he spoke to {whomever he was speaking to}

That’s where the confusion happens. The raising and merging into “whomever” is something that can confuse just about anyone until they learn about the underlying movements.

It could have been

…he spoke to the person to whom he was speaking

Then “the person” stays put and it happens this way:

…he spoke to {the person} [relativizer] he was speaking to {him}

The relativizer would become just “whom”, moved up from the end:

…he spoke to {the person} [whom] he was speaking to

But the “to” typically follows it up in this case:

…he spoke to {the person} [to whom] he was speaking

Notice there are two “to”s in both versions.

So let’s look at the whole sentence again and match the parts:

She tried not to stare at Marco while he spoke to whomever he was speaking to, but she wasn’t succeeding.

What are the verbs?

tried … (not) to stare … spoke (to) … was … speaking (to) … wasn’t … succeeding

The conjugated verbs have subjects:

She tried … he spoke … he was … she wasn’t

Let’s add the complements:

She tried not to stare

to stare at Marco

he spoke to whomever

whomever he was speaking to [him]

she wasn’t succeeding

There are also the conjunctions “while” and “but”, and that makes the whole thing.

She tried not to stare at Marco while he spoke to whomever he was speaking to, but she wasn’t succeeding.

So there are actually no surplus words. Each verb “speaking” requires a “to”: “spoke to” and “was speaking to”. Formal English often frowns on stranding the preposition at the end, but it’s always been an available feature of English; indeed, it requires less syntactic movement. Raising the preposition with its complement is a funny thing to do from a syntactic perspective, and linguists call it “pied piping” because it’s as though the object is a pied piper getting the preposition to come dancing along with it.

Most of that is of course rather complex and more than the average person is inclined to want to know. But editors aren’t average persons, so I have put it here for your enjoyment.

Now, here’s the bit more about the “whoever” becoming “whomever”: The reason “whoever” is “whomever” is because it’s merged with the “him”. The entire relative clause is the object, and the case doesn’t penetrate inside it. Here’s proof:

He looked at whoever was speaking to him.

It would not be correct to say “whomever was speaking to him” because the “was” requires a subject, and that is “whoever.”

As it happens, I talk about how case assignment doesn’t automatically percolate into phrases in my latest article on TheWeek.com, “‘You and I’ vs. ‘You and me’.”

Why it’s best to leave grammar advice to experts

A company called ePly Online Event Registration has, on its website, a page on common errors of grammar and word choice that people make when creating web forms: “Are You Making These Common Wording Errors on Event Websites and Registration Forms?

It’s such a pity they didn’t get someone who had any expertise on the subject to write it. You see, some of their recommendations are good, but it’s all couched in a muck of ignorance and rubbish. It does no favours to the company – nor, for that matter, to the reputations of those who give grammar advice.

Let’s have a look at what I’m talking about, point by point.

First they tell people not to use insure where they should use ensure. I actually have no factual disagreement with this point; it’s a correction I make all the time. They give an example of correct use: “Ensure you register on time.” This is indeed grammatically correct. However, it’s also a bit stilted. Depending on the tone you want, “Make sure you register on time” would be better; giving the exact time might be even better (e.g., “Make sure to register by 11:59 pm on December 23”).

Next they hop onto the which/that distinction:

“That” refers to the noun in the sentence and gives essential information about the noun. “Which” introduces a qualifier that is non-essential.

Hm. First of all, the restriction of which to nonrestrictive clauses is not a grammatical law; it is a stylistic recommendation and does not have to be followed, even in North America (let alone in Britain). Secondly, their grammatical explanation is no good: “refers to the noun in the sentence” – most sentences have more than one noun; the subordinate clause beginning with that refers to the noun right before it… when it refers to a noun. It can also be the complement of a verb: “I think that you’re wrong.”

Then there’s their use of “essential” and “non-essential.” This is not really a clear way to put it. If I say “My car, which is older than I am, is not yet 50,” it is an essential trait of my car that it is not yet 50, though the “which is” clause is not essential to the sentence structure. The real difference is that the which-clause is nonrestrictive: that is to say, it’s not further specifying which car I’m talking about; I have only one car. Were I to say “My car that is older than I am is not yet 50,” it would imply that I have more than one car, and I am restricting the scope to the one older than I. But it is actually the commas, not the which or that, that make the difference. I could say “My car which is older than I am is not yet 50” and that would in fact be grammatically correct – though against a common North American practice.

They next pick on whether versus if:

“Whether” is not interchangeable with “if.” “Whether” expresses a condition where there are two or more alternatives.

Hmm. I don’t know if that’s true. Which is to say I don’t know whether that’s true. Which is to demonstrate that I actually know it’s not altogether true: although use of if in place of whether is considered less formal, it is possible in many (though not all) places.

One example of where it’s possible is their example. This is their example of correct use: “Indicate if you are attending the dinner.” Yes, that’s right, they seem to be saying that “Indicate whether you are attending the dinner” is incorrect. This is actually gobsmackingly off-base. The formal standard would actually be “Indicate whether you will attend the dinner.” The problem with the if version is not simply its reduced formality – which can be a good thing – but the fact that in some cases it may be misread: “Do X if you will do Y” can be taken as “If you will do Y, do X” and by implication “No need to do X if you are not doing Y” – an unlikely misconstrual in their specific example, but a possible one in some cases.

Next they dive into the less/fewer matter. Now, I’ve covered this in “When an ‘error’ isn’t”; the use of less for countable items dates back a millennium and a half and has been seen even in journals of science and philology. It’s true that if you use less to refer to countables you will provoke the ire of the peevers, and thus you do well to stick with fewer in contexts with any formality. But it’s not the iron-clad rule they make it to be. And what’s really bad is their explanation for it:

“Less” is for hypothetical amounts, whereas “fewer” or “few” refers to a number that is quantifiable.

OK, now I know for sure that this was written by some underpaid drudge with no real knowledge of the subject who looked up some stuff on grammar advice on the web and didn’t really process it well. For the record, less refers to mass objects: things that can’t be counted – be they real or hypothetical. Fewer refers only to countables. (Few is not a comparative and should not even be in that sentence unless we also bring in the non-comparative words for mass objects: little, not much, and a few others.) “A number that is quantifiable” is a head-desk phrase. All numbers are quantifiable. Oh, ePly, would you hire a non-expert to write about any other thing? Perhaps they would. I don’t know. Well, what they have here is rubbish. Browbeating, grammar-peeving rubbish that has some facepalming mistakes in it.

Just to prove further that their author is desperately ignorant in matters of English words and grammar, they move on next to this:

Impactful simply isn’t a word – “The keynote speaker will give an impactful presentation…” is grammatically incorrect. Sorry to take that one away from you.

First: impactful is a word, and has been for a long time. You don’t have to like it, but if you think it’s not a word, you have no understanding of what is and isn’t a word. Take a linguistics course, for heaven’s sake. One intro course in linguistics and you would stop making all of these dreadful errors.

That includes the error of saying that using a non-word is grammatically incorrect. No, a sentence such as “The vulks spanged the gromple” is not grammatically incorrect, it just uses lexical items for nouns and verb that are not attested in the lexicon and have no agreed sense. On the other hand, “The clowns spanks the dog” is grammatically incorrect because we can see it has an improper conjugation, and “Spanks the dog clown the” is grammatically incorrect because the word order is all wrong.

Next they talk about affect versus effect. This is in fact an important distinction to make. The advice they give is also generally true:

Remember, “affect” is a verb while “effect” is a noun.

However, they should effect one little change there: add a word such as normally or usually after each is. There is a noun affect referring to emotion, but it is uncommon; there is a verb effect, which is a silk-shirt way to say “cause to happen.” Still, this is not as bad as most of their slip-ups.

Next is the it’s/its distinction, also one worth maintaining. The only mistake they make is to say this:

“It’s” refer to a verb, whereas “its” is a possessive.

First, refer is conjugated improperly; it should be refers. Second, refer is not the right word either. It’s doesn’t refer to a verb; it contains a verb – one of two possibles: is and has. They should just say “It’s stands for it is or it has, whereas its is a possessive like his.”

Next they talk about the difference between then and than. They actually pretty much don’t say anything wrong about this. For once.

They follow this, however, with another example of a stylistic recommendation presented as an absolute law:

“Farther” refers to measurable distance, “further” should be used for an abstract length.

This is a distinction you can make but don’t have to. You can talk of going farther in a relationship and further down a road if you want; it’s just more common to do the converse. On the other hand, you can go far but not fur, and you can further an aim but you can’t farther it.

Oh, yes, by the way, their sentence has a comma splice in it. These people who tell you to proofread your forms (in their tips below their grammar advice) haven’t managed to catch a comma splice. Now, many nice people make comma splices – but I would recommend against making one in a screed of grammatical prescriptivism. Or, if you do, hire a proofreader to catch it.

They inveigh next against “misconnecting verbs”:

Wrong: You should try and register before the price goes up. Right: You should try to register before the price goes up.

The “wrong” version is informal – I wouldn’t recommend it in formal businesslike prose. They don’t really explain what’s up (the first is two imperatives presented in a colloquial idiom; the second is an imperative with an infinitive complement – but that’s more technical than most people would understand), but I’ll give them a pass on this one.

They cap off with this injunction:

“Cannot” should always be written as one word. Not “can not.”

In many cases, it’s actually better to write can’t, but that does depend on the formality of the document: many web forms suffer from excessive formality: “Upon completion of the registration process” rather than “When you have finished registering,” for instance. With cannot, though, they’re making too hard a rule again. Consider the distinction between can not do it (“am able not to do it”) and cannot do it (“am not able to do it”).

It’s not that there’s no value in reminding people of some common usage errors and some things that may seem excessively informal. It’s just that it can be done without overstating cases, saying inaccurate things, and making errors of one’s own.

How does one do that? Get an actual expert to write about it. There are many available, often at shamefully low rates.

hallmark

I recently told a friend that Henry of Pelham’s Baco Noir was one of Ontario’s hallmark wines.

In retrospect, that may or may not have been the best word to use. Tell me what you think of first when you hear or read hallmark.

Um-hmm. Speakin’ of which, Christmas is coming, with all those greeting cards, many (though not all) of which are made by Hallmark. And some days – especially non-vacation-day “holidays” such as Secretaries’ Day and so on (is there a Project Managers’ Day or an Administrators’ Day or an Editors’ Day?) – are referred to derisively as “Hallmark holidays” because they seem to exist just to sell five-dollar pieces of cardboard.

Ah, what hath Joyce Clyde Hall wrought? J.C. Hall (a guy; Joyce was not always a ladies-only name) was the businessman who, in the first two decades of the 1900s, decided that greeting cards were going to be a big thing and started making and marketing them. In 1928, already well established, his company was renamed Hallmark. And thus a word for an attestation of quality started on its roll down the commercial hill to being a synonym for something trite, saccharine, and commercial. I imagine people named McDonald (and those uncommon people named Disney) have some empathy with this.

What, after all, is a hallmark? Well, in London, there is a building called Goldsmiths’ Hall, the home of the Goldsmiths’ Company, which was created to regulate the trade of goldsmiths in England and, since 1300, has been responsible for testing the quality of gold and silver articles – and, since 1975, platinum, and, since 2010, palladium. (The architecture of the current Goldsmiths’ Hall, built in the 1800s, looks just vaguely Palladian, but for no good reason.) The mark that is put on gold, silver, platinum, and palladium to indicate that its quality has been officially tested is the mark of Goldsmiths’ Hall, which is to say, the Hall-mark – now rendered hallmark.

It’s a nice word, really it is. It has that echoing thrall of hall, which can be many things (Kids in the Hall, hall pass, study hall), including some rather positive ones (deck the halls; all those noble buildings called ___ Hall). And it has the mark, which is a similarly common word that can name a blemish or a seal of approval (bourbon drinkers will think of Maker’s Mark) – or a person, including the author of a gospel. Hallmark starts with a breath, then rolls into a dark liquid /l/, firms further into the pillowy nasal /m/, and passes through that retroflex liquid /r/ to a hard stop at the end /k/. In short, its sound is reminiscent of the sight of the logo of a movie production company emerging through clouds or blur to resplendence at the beginning of a film.

And hallmark has good uses. A little searching on Bartleby.com pulls up a couple of examples of common figurative use: “Turgenev became the idol of all that was eclectic, and admiration for Turgenev a hallmark of good taste” (Maurice Baring); “the desirability of the aigrette as the hallmark of wealth and fashion” (Edward Bok).

An indicator of quality. Of good taste, perhaps. A stand-out; emblematic. A distinguishing trait. Imagine giving someone a Christmas gift that you consider a hallmark of taste or fashion: the perfect brooch or tie, perhaps.

Now imagine saying that you are giving them a hallmark.

Sigh.

usher

In my note on terpsichorean I mentioned that I met my wife ushering at a dance festival. Laurie Miller commented in response that I should taste usher.

Uh… sure! Why not? Usher is something I have been and done many times in my life. It comes with being a theatre person and, in my younger years, sufficiently impecunious that I couldn’t afford tickets to all the performances I wanted to attend. Ushers, you see, at least in Canadian and American society, are very often volunteers whose only recompense is getting to see the performance they are ushering, and occasionally getting tickets to other performances. And of course in university drama departments ushering is done by students under obligation. It’s part of that set of theatre functions known as front of house.

So I got very good at pointing things out using a flashlight, and at encouraging people to comport themselves appropriately (including occasional hushing, assuring, and keeping people from rushing), and at navigating vestibules and stairs in the dark. That last skill was essential, because you would not want to treat the audience to an impromptu performance of The Fall of the House Usher.

Usher is indeed a family name as well, probably based on the occupation of its first holders back in medieval times. Noted bearers of the name, also sometimes spelled Ussher, include the Irish bishop who determined through some Biblical number-crunching and interpolation that God created the world at the nightfall before October 23, 4004 BC. There was also Hezekiah Usher, of Boston, the first bookseller in British North America. And there’s a popular singer of our times who goes by the one-word name Usher (it’s actually his first name; his family name is Raymond).

But never mind bishops and booksellers and singers and horror-novel title characters. What everyone seems to want to know is, do ushers ush?

That seems sensible, doesn’t it? Editors edit, after all, and porters port and doctors doct and barbers barb and… hmm, wait, no. It doesn’t always work. Ushers usher. But it’s a very common jocularism among ushers to speak of ushing. In theory, an usher could threaten a noisy patron with “If you don’t hush up you’ll be ushed out.” Which looks like pushed out with the p left behind. But we know that people are not ushed out, they are ushered out. Out what? The door, of course; ushers are first and foremost doorkeepers.

That’s where the word comes from, in fact: Latin ostiarius, from ostium ‘door’. “Aw, sure,” you say insincerely, “that’s obvious.” Well, here’s how it got from there to here: the Latin was worn down to Old French huisier (modern French is huissier); that had variant spellings such as ussier; it came into English and became usser or uscher or ussher or usher. And for what they did they simply used the same word as who they were. Well, if you can doctor, why not be able to usher? Backform it to ush and you have a word that’s a little too close to hush – and it sounds like “a shh,” which of course ushers have been known to utter… in between the ushering in and the ushering out.

terpsichorean

I first heard this word in an episode of the CBC comedy radio show Doctor Bundolo’s Pandemonium Medicine Show – a couple of pretentious types were making love talk and one of them referred to “the terpsichorean twilight.” I didn’t really know what it meant, and the context was utterly unhelpful.

Also, they pronounced it with the stress on the chor. Which is probably how most literate Anglophones would say it on seeing it for the first time: “terp-si-cor-ee-an.” But that’s not the approved pronunciation.

Nope, it dances around some. What you need to know first is that this word is an adjective formed on Terpsichore. Does that look like it should be “terp-si-cor”? Nuh-uh. In the original Greek, it was Τερψιχόρη, “ter-psi-kho-ré.” But in the great (awful) English classicist custom of putting the accent on the antepenultimate in all Greek words, it came to be “terp-sickery.”

And since in English we usually try to avoid putting primary stress on the preantepenultimate syllable, especially when there would be no secondary stress after it, for terpsichorean we move the stress to the penultimate syllable because we can’t have it on the syllable before that because that one is utterly reduced and unstressed and it would be just so wrong to have it get full value after being reduced to zilch (even though it was the long syllable in the Greek original). So it’s “terp-sicka-ree-an.” As I said, it dances.

And dance is where the back half of it comes from: χορός khoros ‘dance’, root of choreography but also of chorus (because choruses in Greek dramas dance). The first half is from τέρπειν terpein, verb, ‘delight’. Together they made the name of the muse of dance: Terpsichore.

That’s a nice, light-footed word, isn’t it? Tapping as it does on the tip of the tongue, the lips, the tip, the back and tip again. It’s often used to refer to dance in general: “Do you fancy a bit of Terpsichore?” But it has a bit of hidden ill in it. Right in the middle is “sick”; in terpsichorean the end has an uncomfortable echo of diarrhea. And I can’t remember when or where, but I remember seeing twerpsichore. Which I guess is douchebag dancing.

Or maybe it’s a term for my efforts in undergraduate dance classes. I bet you didn’t know I took introductory classes in modern dance, ballet, and jazz dance. I got something in the order of a C in modern dance. My worst mark ever. Obviously it was a course I needed to take, because I knew nothing of it at all! And I was very tense and uptight. All my muscles were tight, everything was jerky. I showed a bit of what I had learned to one of my roommate’s friends, a dancer, and she burst into laughter.

In ballet, that kind of tension can pretend to be self-control. Sure. I got a B+, which was an A for effort and a B– for technique. In jazz dance I think I got a B or B–. Those courses destroyed my GPA (well, OK, not destroyed; they just kept me off the Dean’s List). And I’m really glad I took them. I’m still not a great dancer, but I’m better than I was, and I learned a lot more appreciation for it. And I love to watch dance.

So does my wife, who has a BA and MA in dance. In fact, dance is how we met. Not actually dancing – I don’t think my twerpsichore would have charmed her. We were just ushering a dance festival. And now we can usher ourselves out to a nearby theatre in the terpsichorean twilight to watch dance performances.

Thanks to Dawn Loewen for suggesting today’s word.

drecky

Ah, sleep: the nightly frontier. To boldly, or at least relaxedly, go where one has gone before, and yet every night a new hypnagogy, every morning a new hypnopomp leading to brekky. Dreams are when your brain takes out the trash, and every day’s dump brings new junk for the dogs of dreamland to strew over the lawn of your subjunct consciousness. Sometimes dropping into the nightly trek to Never-Never Land is as easy as splitting an infinitive. Sometimes it is rather more tricky. Last night was one of the latter for me. And today I felt drecky.

Drecky? Like junk. Like crap. Rubbishy. As though my hypnagog got run over by a dumptruck, and instead of hypnopomp I had an unappealing circumstance, washing back and forth over the limen while trying in repeated dreams to remember the Chinese character for ‘play’.

OK, so have you never seen this word drecky before? If you search it on the web you will find a few definitions, among which the Urban Dictionary one stands out – the others will tell you it means ‘trashy’ in a literal sense, but Urban Dictionary hews to the derogatory sense of trashy as applied to young women. Given that most of Urban Dictionary appears to have been written by adolescent boys, this is not so surprising.

But obviously drecky is an adjectival form of dreck. And dreck is what? A word I first learned long ago from MAD Magazine (which writer I can’t remember, but it may have been Mort Drucker). It’s a word we got from Yiddish (often spelled drek there; in German it’s Dreck). It’s normally used to mean ‘junk, garbage, trash’. Actually in Yiddish it literally means ‘excrement’ or ‘dregs’. It appears to have a common Indo-European etymon with Greek σκατός skatos as in scatological.

It’s a good word for derision. The /d/ grinds into an affricate and the lips round as it growls into the /r/ and the sound of a “wreck.” The tongue pulls back and crashes at the velum; the lips widen apart. It’s vaguely reminiscent of the motion of trash being swept into a dustpan.

And today I felt like a dustpan that hadn’t been dumped. My mental trunk was full of junk. The porcelain bowl of my mind had not flushed clear. I felt like dreck. I felt drecky. Fortunately, like Dracula, I come to life after dark no matter what. And the taste of a word will always do the trick for me.

lumbago

“Oh, my lumbago!”

You know, I used to see that line in cartoons and other fictional things fairly frequently. When? A lumberjack’s years ago… back in the time when Winnebagos were a big thing. But who talks about lumbago now? There’s a whole generation that probably doesn’t even know what it is.

So what is it? Just what’s now commonly referred to as lower back pain. Picture a person stooping forward a bit, hand on their lumbar region, little cartoon stars popping away from it like fireworks. When afflicted by lumbago, you lumber around, bagged, glum and stooped as Gollum, barely ambulatory and most unlikely to gambol. You are like one of those marionettes that are miraculously cured by the oh-so-crisp-sounding Robaxacet (a product of a time when no one says lumbago, though).

But what is the etiology? (Not the etymology – I’ll get to that in a moment.) According to the dusty definition in the Oxford English Dictionary, it’s “A rheumatic affection in the lumbar region of the body.” But if you ask the newer entry in the Encyclopedia Britannica, “Lumbago is considered by health professionals to be an antiquated term that designates nothing more than lower back pain caused by any of a number of underlying conditions.” Muscle strain, herniated disk, sciatica, scoliosis, even some osteoporotic kyphosis… all fall into this catch-all. No wonder it’s not used much anymore.

Well, it really is not a new term. It’s been in English since the 1600s, coming from Latin unaltered in form or sense (except that we say “lum bay go” rather than “loom bah go” as Latin would have it). The root is Latin lumbus ‘loin’. Which provides a good opportunity to remind everyone that although we often use loins to refer to the pubic area, it really in the main is the part of the torso between the hips and the ribs (on comestible quadrupeds too: this is where loin chops come from). The loins are the part you gird – for example, with a weightlifter’s belt. The vertebrae of this stretch are called the lumbar vertebrae. If the lumbar region is in good order, you are limber; if it is as stiff as timber lumber, you may have lumbago.

Except no one really uses that word anymore.

lingonberry

“KVALITETSGARANTI: Denna produkt är utvald och kvalitetstestad. Skulle du ändå inte vara nöjd med dess kvalitet, ber vig dig höra av dig till oss.”

What’s the lingo? What’s going on? It’s just the quality guarantee on the lingon.

Lingon? Do I perhaps mean Klingon? Not at all. Although the contents of the package are a gory colour, they are altogether vegetable. Or, more precisely, berry. The front of the plastic tub bears the legend LINGON SYLT and then, below a picture of the eponymous berries, 1,5 kg.

Yeah, baby. It’s a 1.5 kg tub of lingonberry sauce. And only $10 at the annual Swedish Christmas Fair (just $1 more than three styrofoam cups of glögg)! It may be the only cheap food item ever to come out of Sweden (and yes, although the brand is Eldorado, it is made in Sweden). But when 1.5 kg is probably about a week’s supply for a typical Swedish household, you have to price it to move…

Oh, the lingon is the hot centre of Swedish cuisine, its pulsing red lingam. OK, maybe that’s a slight overstatement, but think of the role of ketchup in American cuisine. Lingonberries are something in that line for the Swedes. You’d think that they kept them healthy. And maybe they do.

I first heard of lingonberries in the Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook my mom had when I was growing up. In the instructions for our single most-used recipe in the book, Swedish pancakes, was the final admonition, “Pass lingonberry jam.” Which, however, we never did. Look, we were in Alberta in the ’70s, OK? Also we weren’t Swedish. Sorry. Reg and I just buttered the pancakes, poured quarter-cups of white sugar on them (you think I’m exaggerating but I’m not), rolled them up and ate them. So it was years before I discovered the wonder that is lingonberry. Discovered that it’s really pretty much a small cranberry.

Indeed, lingonberries are also called mountain cranberries, and they are a related species to cranberries. But they’re also called csejka berry, foxberry, qualiberry, beaver berry, red whortleberry, bearberry (though I’m pretty sure what we called bearberries in Alberta were another thing… hmmm…), cougarberry, mountain bilberry, partridgeberry, and cowberry. It’s that last one that reveals its link to cranberries.

You see, the Latin word for ‘cow’ is vacca, and the related adjective is vaccinium. Yes, as in vaccine – the first vaccine was cowpox virus used to stimulate antibodies against the related smallpox virus. And the name of the genus of both the lingonberry and the cranberry is Vaccinium. It does make them sound like health food, doesn’t it? But it’s just because apparently cows liked them.

I gotta say, though, if cows can eat these berries straight off the bush, they have a pretty good tolerance for tartness. These things need quite a lot of sugar before they’re palatable to human tongues – though once they are, they’re wonderful. (And who doesn’t want a little tart tongue from time to time?)

The word lingonberry doesn’t really capture the crisp, fresh tartness quite as cranberry does; cran has a crisp start, but lingon is soft – think about the Chinese fruit called longan: much more suited to its name. But lingon does have that sticky, bouncy ng in the middle, which is good for a Swedish sound. And if you’re speaking Swedish, you don’t need that berry bit; it is indeed lingon just by itself. It’s related to ljung ‘heather’.

But enough linguistics. It’s time for some lingonguistics. We still have probably 1200 grams left to eat (we bought it on Saturday)… Jag behöver en sked! (I need a spoon!)

shallow

Fill a shallow pan with water, not too deep at all. Tap your fingertip lightly on the surface: it will send concentric ripples out, and a little droplet will fall off your digit. For no particularly good reason, this little gesture is what the sound (and saying) of the word shallow makes me think of, and vice versa.

There is much to this word, though. It hushes “sh” to start with, and its parallel ripples ll that come with the soft tap of the tongue tip could at any time harden just a little to reduce the thin to no thickness at all and make the shallow a shadow. And at the end the tongue recedes to the depths of the mouth, pulling back as the lips round to make as deep an articulation as we have in English. And yet the word’s sense is some level as low as you can allow.

Well, it all goes to show… actually, when all goes into show, we get shallow again. We do not get something hollow, but we do get hallows a bit out of place. And in the middle, the lloh! walls? How shall we account for all this? The word’s form is so deep in colour, even as its object seems sallow.

Its history goes straight back into the Germanic roots, and it seems to be cognate with shoal. As Laurie Miller has reminded me in suggesting this word, you won’t find an equivalent word for this in French. Whereas in English we have a scale with two directions, deep and shallow, in French there is only one direction, profond (deep); something that is not very deep is… well, not very deep: peu profond. So the existence of our word shallow adds a bit more depth to our tongue.

But so what if English has one word for ‘shallow’ and French has none? It’s not that France lacks shallow waters or shallow people. Not everyone there is Jean-Paul Sartre. This is a country that has given us as many foppish courtiers as scheming Richelieus. Their famous studied insouciance and carefully carefree fashions present many a person as deeply shallow, but in the end they’re just people after all. And they live in the world and use the language they have. Languages are variously deep in their various ways, and the store of words is not a solid guide to the store of reality they have to represent; the world is always deeper than the word.

So we learn our words, we learn about our words, we learn to use our words, we learn the relations of our words to our worlds. And in all this we should remember what Alexander Pope told us:

A little learning is a dangerous thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.